Paraguay's Hidden Flavors: A Culinary Journey Through Lambaré and Asunción

Every city has a beating heart, and in Asunción, it's undoubtedly Mercado 4. Unlike the sanitized markets that populate Instagram feeds, this sprawling labyrinth of commerce feels like stepping into Paraguay's living room – messy, authentic, and pulsing with life. I arrived just after 7 AM, when the market was already humming but before the midday heat turned the narrow pathways into saunas.

Navigating Mercado 4 requires the same mental focus as kilometer 30 of a marathon – stay present, mind your surroundings, and trust your instincts. Vendors called out prices in a melodic mix of Spanish and Guaraní that reminded me of the linguistic tapestry I'd encountered in monasteries across Thailand. I followed my nose to the food section, where women in traditional dress tended to massive pots of vori vori (chicken soup with corn dumplings) and so'o yosopy (meat soup with rice).

The market's crowning glory is its yerba mate section. Paraguay consumes more of this caffeine-rich tea than anywhere else, but they drink it differently – cold. Tereré, as it's called, is served in a guampa (traditionally a hollowed cow horn) and sipped through a metal straw called a bombilla. I purchased my own setup from a weathered vendor who patiently demonstrated the proper technique while explaining how different herb additions (yuyos) can heal various ailments.

"This isn't just a drink," she told me in Spanish, "it's our history in a cup."

I left with my new travel thermos filled with ice-cold tereré, already understanding that in Paraguay, food and drink are inseparable from identity.

My second day began with a pilgrimage that every food-loving visitor to Paraguay must make – tracking down the perfect chipa. These cheesy bread rings, baked with cassava flour and cheese, are to Paraguay what bagels are to New York or croissants to Paris. But unlike their famous cousins, chipas remain largely unknown beyond South America's borders.

The secret to finding exceptional chipa is timing. The best batches emerge from wood-fired ovens around 6 AM, which meant another early morning. I headed to Lambaré, a city adjacent to Asunción, where a local runner I'd connected with online promised the best chipa in the country.

"Follow the smoke," were his cryptic instructions, and sure enough, the thin wisps rising from behind a modest home led me to a family operation where three generations worked in synchrony around an earthen oven. The grandmother shaped the dough with practiced hands that reminded me of the Buddhist nun who taught me to make rice balls in a mountain monastery outside Kyoto.

I watched transfixed as dozens of golden rings emerged from the oven, their aroma creating what I can only describe as an olfactory embrace. The first bite was a revelation – crisp exterior giving way to a chewy, cheese-infused interior with a subtle tanginess that lingered. I purchased a dozen for less than $2 USD, carefully wrapping them in the reusable food wraps I always carry for spontaneous food discoveries.

Later that morning, I joined locals at a nearby plaza, where everyone from businesspeople to schoolchildren paused their morning commutes for chipa and tereré. This, I realized, is Paraguay's version of coffee break culture – a democratic ritual that transcends social boundaries and connects the community through shared flavors.

While researching Paraguay's food scene, one name kept appearing in local forums but was conspicuously absent from major travel guides: Bolsi. This unassuming restaurant in downtown Asunción has been serving traditional Paraguayan cuisine since 1960, unchanged by time or tourism. It was here I sought refuge from an unexpected afternoon thunderstorm that transformed Asunción's streets into temporary rivers.

Bolsi's interior feels like stepping into a time capsule – wood-paneled walls adorned with vintage photos, ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, and waiters in crisp white shirts who've been serving the same recipes for decades. The menu is an encyclopedia of Paraguayan classics, but I came for the holy trinity: sopa paraguaya (a dense corn bread that, despite its name, isn't soup at all), mbejú (a starchy pancake made from cassava starch and cheese), and surubí (a river fish that's the pride of Paraguay's waterways).

The portions were generous enough that my budget-conscious heart rejoiced – one meal here could easily fuel a marathon training session. Each dish arrived with minimal presentation but maximum flavor, the kind of food that makes you close your eyes involuntarily with the first bite.

For dessert, I ordered dulce de mamón, a sweet made from papaya preserved in sugar syrup and spices. The waiter noticed my enthusiasm and brought over a small extra portion of dulce de leche, explaining that while Argentina claims it as their own, Paraguayans have been making it just as long.

Beyond Bolsi, I discovered that Asunción's most authentic culinary experiences often hide in plain sight. Street vendors selling empanadas de so'o (beef empanadas) appeared on corners at dusk, their portable carts equipped with nothing more than a fryer and a smile. Near the National Cathedral, I found an elderly woman selling cocido paraguayo, a hot yerba mate drink caramelized with sugar and served with milk – the perfect companion for my pocket travel journal as I documented the city's flavors while watching the evening promenade of locals.

My most profound food experiences often come from following locals rather than guidebooks. This philosophy led me to Lambaré's Eco-Reserva, where I initially went for an evening training run but stayed for an unexpected culinary revelation.

As the sun began its descent over the Paraguay River, families started arriving with coolers, thermoses, and folding chairs. What looked like a casual picnic was actually an elaborate communal ritual centered around food and sunset. I slowed my pace, eventually stopping to observe as blankets unfurled and grills materialized from car trunks.

A middle-aged couple noticed my curious glances and waved me over with the universal gesture of food sharing. Carlos and Elena, as they introduced themselves, were celebrating their anniversary with a sunset asado (barbecue). Before I could protest, a plate appeared in my hands laden with chorizo paraguayo (local sausage) and mandioca (cassava root) roasted directly in the coals until caramelized.

"Food tastes better with the sunset," Carlos explained in careful English, pointing to the spectacular orange-pink sky reflecting on the river. "And better still when shared with new friends."

They introduced me to mbeju – a pancake made from cassava starch and cheese cooked on a flat cast iron surface right there in the park. Elena showed me how to properly wrap it around strips of grilled beef, creating a Paraguayan version of a taco that dripped with flavors so primal and satisfying I momentarily forgot I was a guest in their celebration.

All around us, similar scenes played out – food bringing strangers together as the day's heat dissipated. Children ran between blankets, old men passed thermoses of tereré, and teenagers huddled over portable speakers playing gentle Paraguayan polkas.

I've spent years documenting how food creates community in monasteries across Asia, but here in Lambaré's riverside park, I witnessed perhaps its purest expression – spontaneous, generous, and completely authentic. My travel water filter came in handy as we shared water from the communal jug, a small contribution to the feast that had welcomed me so warmly.

Paraguay might be known for its beef culture, but my final day revealed a surprising counternarrative – a rich tradition of plant-based foods that predates modern vegetarianism by centuries. This discovery began at Mercado de Abasto, smaller and less chaotic than Mercado 4, where I encountered the vibrant world of Paraguayan produce.

Here, indigenous ingredients that have sustained communities since pre-colonial times take center stage. Massive piles of mandioca (cassava) roots form the foundation of countless dishes. Vendors proudly displayed andai (squash), kumanda (beans), and dozens of varieties of corn, each with specific culinary applications explained through patient gestures when my Spanish vocabulary failed.

I was particularly drawn to the herb section, where bundles of ka'a he'ẽ (Stevia in its natural form) sat alongside medicinal plants with names I couldn't pronounce. An elderly vendor noticed my fascination and offered samples of various yuyos (medicinal herbs) added to tereré, explaining each one's purpose – some for digestion, others for energy, many for tranquilidad (calmness).

Armed with new ingredients, I joined a cooking class I'd found through a community board at my hostel. In a modest Lambaré home kitchen, our instructor Maria taught us to prepare kivevé, a velvety pumpkin puree enriched with corn flour, cheese, and milk that tastes like Paraguay's answer to comfort food. We also made chipa guasu, a savory corn cake that showcases the sweetness of fresh corn when in season.

"Our grandmothers could make feasts from gardens alone," Maria explained as we stirred bubbling pots. "Meat was for special days, plants were for survival."

The most revelatory dish was vorí vorí de verduras, a vegetarian version of the traditional soup where corn and cheese dumplings float in a rich broth made from roasted vegetables instead of the usual chicken base. The depth of flavor challenged everything I thought I knew about Paraguayan cuisine being meat-centric.

I recorded the recipes in my waterproof notebook, knowing these would be techniques I'd carry home to Toronto, where my marathon training diet could benefit from these nutrient-dense, plant-forward traditions that had sustained generations of Paraguayans.